


Do not get involved

by Shadowmun



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Psychological Torture, Swearing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26814700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmun/pseuds/Shadowmun
Summary: A witcher learns some valuable lessons, he later will need.
Kudos: 3





	Do not get involved

**Author's Note:**

> Take the tag seriously, I am not getting graphic, but I am not friendly on it either.  
> Quite angsty and times and not exactly happily ever after. If you are not up to that, you won't like it.  
> As per usual: non-native, non-betaread, and because I was told (I couldn't believe, this is necessary, but... here we are: constructive critism wanted.

When the witcher entered the cell, it was already occupied. On the single straw pile used as mattress, lay a figure, almost too small for a grown man. But it still was, albeit an almost delicate one. He didn’t move, even when the cell door was opened. His face was scarily pale, and he shivered, staring dully into the darkness, his steel blue eyes already dead.  
Behind the witcher, the door closed again, and he grunted unhappily. As if the job of hunting whatever plagued this prison wasn’t bad enough without closed locks. And company, for that matter. Although: the other man didn’t seem to be much of a company, unless you counted the occasional moan. “So, what are you up to?”, he finally mumbled to himself and drew closer, from one second to the other feeling the heat emanating from the body before him.  
The small man was shaken by high fever and further investigation revealed, the back of his shirt clung to the body, because he was covered in open, weeping sores from a serious lashing, from the neck down to his bottom. When the shirt fell back, where the witcher had lifted it, he sobbed and stirred, rising to a sitting position in painfully slow pace. “Please, leave”, he begged softly, finally looking up to the man towering above him. “I don’t want to kill… again.”  
There was no threat in his boyish voice, only despair, his eyes now filled with a strange, yet incredibly amiable light. The witcher crouched down beside him and studied the sweat-covered, feverish face. “What makes you think, you could?”  
The small man smiled uneasily and sighed. “The put the worst, most brutish, most violent men in here. They wanted me to die from the start… even before… Yet, every morning, they do, there is a corpse. And not the one, they anticipated. Every morning, I am whole again.”  
The witcher pointed to his back. “And that?”  
“Healed, every morning… they just do it again, and hope, the infection kills me. Finally. I wish it would.”  
The simple declaration was followed by another low sob. “I am in here for life. Only wished, it wouldn’t take so long.” With that, he fell back on the straw, ignoring the instinctive flinch of his body on the impact of pain and just staring into the darkness again.  
The witcher felt pity for him, but unease as well. How fitting, that once more, the official version, he was told, didn’t even closely resemble reality. “May I?”, he asked, not really expecting an answer, but the smaller man nodded absentmindedly. “Go ahead.” The voice was tinted with resignation now.  
Still, the witcher used all care and traced the body gently, searching for any signs of the most common curses and enchantments. He found none. One by one he ruled them out. Lycanthropy, hexes, mutation… The small man was adorned with magic, yet neither did he know, how to use it, nor was it the origin of the mystery surrounding him. “So, why are you here then…”, he tried to get him talking, to ease the pain and to distract him from the continued search.  
“Served the Viscount of Pedyak, got sent on a…” A pained yelp interrupted his curt narration, when the witcher accidently moved the shirt, pulling it free from the clotted blood on the man’s back.  
“Sorry ‘bout that.”  
The younger man waved defiantly and went on: “Sent on a mission… after… after elves. Couldn’t… wouldn’t… fire on women and children… “ The inner pain seemed now more palpable than the physical one, but still, there was no sign of ill-willed magic surrounding him. Abruptly he sat up again and rubbed his face. “Sucker set me up for treason and attempted murder.” Then he exhaled once more, pulled himself up and went for the door with shaky, stiff steps. “You need to leave now; nightfall is almost there.” With that he thumped his fists against the door and yelled for the guards. As expected, no one turned up, before his strength left him, and he eased himself to the ground beside the door. “Fuck.”  
The witcher tended to agree, but said nothing and waited, while the second-hand light from the skylights high up on the wall that counted as day around here turned yellow, red and finally blue. By then, the cell was almost dark, emphasizing a strange glow, rising slowly from the ground, circling their limbs, where they touched it, tentative, searching. Where it found the prisoner, it slid closer, encasing him, overwhelming him, almost suffocating him.  
Where the light touched, his body changed, healing all bruises, leaving unscathed soft skin, with sinewy muscle underneath. It wasn’t pleasant though, he screamed, without making an actual sound and struggled with all he had against it. His eyes… steel blue and warm, now flickered in panic, before going dark. The result looked like a twisted impression of the witcher himself. Smaller, but faster, as fear inducing, as nimble, as resilient as him.  
With a muttered “Fuck” he drew his sword, the silver one, and prepared for battle. Of course… it had never been the man, always the place, that had been cursed… and the prisoner in his weakened state had been the easiest victim to intrude and overwhelm. But it took care of its victim, did not simply push him into the battle without concern.  
It circled the witcher, seeking weakness, testing his defenses. It danced forth and back in its stolen body, avoiding the witcher’s sword. When it saw an opening, it crashed the small man against the witcher with surprising force, hard enough, they both stumbled to the ground. That close, the witcher could see the fight, going on within the body of the prisoner. His face distorted in equal measures of pain, defiance and rage. His fists opened and closed with who controlled them at the given moment. Tears streamed over the much too young face. The inner fight gave the witcher all the time, he needed to pin the smaller man down, catching the flailing arms under his body and binding them with the belt he pulled from his own pants. The curse attacked with renewed fury, headbutting and kicking the witcher with all its strength. But it depended on a body that even strengthened with its magic was still no match for a trained witcher. More so a body, that refused to do its bidding whenever he could.  
It achieved some minor successes, one especially vicious hit even cut the skin over the witcher’s cheekbone but left the prisoner’s face bloody as well. He cried out; the sound not suffocated anymore by the weakened grasp of the curse. This was the moment. The witcher secured him, with his weight, kept his arms pinned above his head and whispered into his ear: “Help me help you. Repeat after me.” He continued with a few words in elder speech, meant as focus, banning malevolent spirits. The prisoner stumbled over the words first, moaning and gasping in between or crying out in terror. But he tried. Again and again, he repeated the phrase, stronger and more secure with each new cycle.  
The witcher encouraged him, still intimately close, while he kept an eye on any movement the prisoner made. But the fight was over, or at least now happened inside the poor man’s body. The power of the curse made his muscles twitch with bone-breaking force, forcing out sobs and cries. He shook violently and sought the witcher’s gaze with panicked eyes. There were few things, he could do to comfort him, but he went on to whisper insignificant encouragement with his low, now friendly voice. The fight went on for hours and left them both exhausted. Only when the first roosters crowed outside the walls of the prison, the curse subsided, melted back into the hewn stone floor.  
This changed the pace of the prisoner’s shivers, now of fatigue and cold instead of the inner battle. He smiled weakly at the witcher and sighed. “Thank you.”  
A curt nod was enough of an answer, before he stood up and helped the prisoner to his feet. Hopefully soon the guards would come to bring food and let him out, so he could search for the origin of this curse. He preferred not to put himself or the prisoner through a second night like this. “What’s your name?”, he asked, when he heard the footfalls of heavy boots already approaching.  
“Eythan…” was the simple answer.  
Soon after, the door was unlocked and the witcher could step through. Then two guards entered and pulled the prisoner out and placed him on a pillory. The resident executioner appeared and started another lashing of the poor small man’s back. After the ordeal of the night, he did not even have the strength to scream properly, he just sobbed softly. It went on and on despite the witcher’s efforts to intervene, and whenever the prisoner lost his conscience the guards brought him back with a bucket of water.  
As soon as it was over, they released him from his restrains and pushed him back into the cell, which explained more of the state, in which the witcher had met him, than he ever wanted to know.  
Best not to think about it now. He needed to focus, he needed to find the source, the origin of the curse, or this would go on, probably for eternity.

The witcher came back in the evening, this time with some food and water for the prisoner, who was quite obviously only sustained by the curse that took possession over him at night. His day had been long and unsuccessful, neither the local authorities nor the archives had offered any sufficient answer. It was not even possible to pinpoint the target of the curse…  
So this visit was quite pointless, but the witcher couldn’t forget the panicked eyes of the small prisoner, his struggle, his pain. He could not bring himself to leave him to his fate. So he let himself get locked up again, despite the snickering of the guards and the wordless pleading of his cellmate. He helped him into a sitting position and shared his provisions with him. Eythan thanked him in simple words and ate desperately slow, testing his stomach before each new bite. “You shouldn’t have come…” he finally uttered when he noticed the ceasing light above them.  
The witcher shrugged. “Hm… probably.” For a while, they waited in silence, then he asked: “Do you remember the words?” The prisoner nodded eagerly and repeated the phrase with unexpected resonance and clarity. Truly… there was magic in him… The witcher could only hope, this did not open doors, he really needed closed at least for a few nights on. “When it starts, let it. You need to heal. Don’t resist, before I say so.”  
The prisoner shook his head, fear already taking over his thinking. “No, maybe, they won’t do it again, if it stays…”  
Just as the witcher disagreed: “You die, when it stays”, he managed to get himself together again and nodded. Wiser than last time, they didn’t repeat their initial dance. The witcher just tied the prisoner up and stayed close, in case, additional action was needed.  
Aside from waiting for the curse to rise, giving the signal when to resist and comforting the smaller man, when the curse tried to regain control over him, there wasn’t. Compared to the night before, it was almost relaxing, though even more taxing for his cellmate, who fought the restraints like a wounded beast. After some time, it felt easier just to rest his head on the witcher’s thigh, allowing him to idly stroke his hair and wiping sweat from his face.  
In the morning, a late arrival of the guards allowed even for some hours of slumber, leaning against the stone wall and close together for warmth. But the peace did not last. Too soon, it was interrupted by an open door and guards, ripping the prisoner away from the witcher’s side. This time though, the witcher refused to let the spectacle unfurl.  
With the simple argument, he needed the prisoner able-bodied for his investigation, he made them hesitate. More than enough time to put himself between the man and his torturers. After that, they relented, probably one undisturbed day wouldn’t hurt now, would it?  
They were less happy about the idea to let the man walk free, but when the witcher insisted, they allowed it anyways, assuming, it wouldn’t be hard to catch one weakened criminal. So Eythan could join the witcher for the day, at least within the limitations of the prison walls. 

The witcher was unsure, how to proceed. He had checked all possible sources of the curse, even including unlikely strays, his cellmate suggested. His last resort now was to recheck the cell itself in daylight, preferably with a few additional torches and the loving help of a cat-potion.  
It took that much to finally notice the thin, shallow scratches on the stone bed of the cell, mostly obscured by the grime above it. Only after a decent cleaning, he was able to find out, what it really was. He studied the sign, that unfolded on the newly scrubbed floor below him and sweared. “Fuck.” Adorned in magic… oh yes… With a single move of his hand, he grabbed his cellmate by the throat and pushed him against the next wall. “How did you do it? Who taught you?”  
Eythan smiled uneasily and with terror-widened eyes. “I didn’t… I… didn’t” He didn’t even try to get rid of the witcher’s steeled grip, staying almost inhumanly still.  
With a side glance, the witcher asked the present guards about the previous occupants of the cell, but the immediate answer wasn’t satisfying. He sighed and dragged the small man along, as he went for the prison’s administration office. There, after some shuffling of papers, he finally found his answer. In Black and White. What an unpleasant surprise.  
With another fuck, he approached the prison’s commander, also his client. “You were right to be concerned. It’s for you… and probably a few other fellows. Can’t be broken though.”  
“Then, what are you good for, witcher!”, the commander grumbled, messing up his sparse hair and huffing breathlessly from agitation.  
“I can contain it though… I think….”, the witcher deadpanned, continuing unhappily: “If your stupid treatment of the prisoners hasn’t strengthened it to much…” The striking difference in bodily size of the target versus the present victim was not lost on the witcher. Most targets of this curse probably had it coming. They would execute the “messenger” afterwards though, so he needed to put an end to that. The man deserved better, if he was any judge of character.  
So, he discussed with the commander, what would be needed and prepared himself for another fight against the enchantment, more desperate than wicked, more sad than evil. When he finally was back to the cell with its occupant, Eythan nervously asked him about it. The witcher didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he asked: “Do you trust me?” The small man nodded reluctantly and braced himself for bad news.  
“You know, you are of elven blood, do you?” That was certainly bad news for the prisoner, although it explained so much of his appearance, from the fragile strength of his limbs to the unparalleled beauty of the face below the grime. “Oh… so you didn’t.”  
He shook his head almost imperceptibly and urged the witcher to go on. He explained to him, in simple terms, that this was elven magic. Before his incarceration another elf had been imprisoned here and had created the enchantment so that any later occupant of elven blood, possible not sentenced to death and able to leave after a time, would carry out his revenge on those who wronged him.  
“They would never have known, what hit them, once you walked free, and you wouldn’t either, without experience, the spell would have overpowered you.”  
But the caster had been too compassionate. He wanted the wielder to live. Wanted him to be safe. Wanted him to heal.  
The rest was history. The enchantment had found Eythan and would not leave him. They could fight it, contain it, but with the most probable death of its caster, there was no way to dispel it without help of another caster.  
“I will bring you there. I promise. But you need to hold on. We need to put the enchantment into you. Take it with us.”  
The eyes of the prisoner were full of dread, but he agreed. What actual choice did he have? He did as the witcher told him, tried to make himself comfortable, tried not even to think of resistance.  
Meanwhile the witcher placed everything he needed close by. His weapon of choice tonight were brass knuckles. First, a sword was hard to use in close quarters and second, he didn’t want to hurt the prisoner more than absolutely necessary. Furthermore, he didn’t dare tie him up again, in case the enchantment didn’t fully take, if he was restrained. He brought a chisel to destroy the scratches though, to make sure the spell would leave no residue here and damn some other poor creature like this.  
By nightfall, he made the prisoner sit down and taught him another phrase in elder speech. He didn’t explain, which only added to the unease. Then they waited together, sitting face to face and breathing slowly and controlled.  
He felt the effect of the spell, once it took, because the breath of his cellmate started to stutter. Tension built in his body and his eyes widened, full of tears. With no resistance offered, the spell took over easily, but made no attempts to pressure the body into something. No wounds and no present threat made it rest within the body, leaving its host unimpaired, albeit terrified. He wrung his hands and took shivering breaths, unable to move or think. He flinched, when the witcher took his hand and signaled to start reciting the new elder phrase. Slowly, softly, magic unfolded. More and more tendrils of the enchantment found their way into the prisoner’s body, embedded themselves in his flesh and formed a seal, similar to the scratches on the ground, right on his skin. It looked painful, but the prisoner accepted his fate without complaint. Only his grip around the witcher’s hand tightened with the process nearing completion.  
When the afterglow of the enchantment faded, as every single tendril was safely absorbed, the witcher reached for the chisel and pushed it hard into the scratches, destroying line after line with alarmed thoroughness.  
At once, the prisoners body jolted. His chanting went harsh, interrupted by suppressed coughs. His hand cramped around the witcher’s with hurtful intensity. Soon after the last line was interrupted, the last scratching damaged, he attacked, now fully succumbing to the curse.  
He threw his whole bodyweight against the cowering witcher, making him tumble and fall, and clawed his way upwards, once they were on the ground. The curse made him act much more reckless, now its bare existence was threatened. He howled like a wild animal, when the witcher turned him around and pushed him violently to the ground. The kiss of the brass knuckles pushed his head back but did nothing to stop the feverish clawing and ripping of his hands. Unimaginable effort pushed him off the ground, towards the witcher’s body, where he bit down, burying his face in his opponent’s shoulder. The witcher grunted, pulled him up and pushed him against the next wall, choking him with his arm, until he could get behind his back, holding on, until the thrusting and flailing of the limbs weakened. The prisoner grunted, gulped for air, growled like a rabid wolf, until his breath stuttered. He couldn’t free himself anymore, although he amassed hits after hits on the witcher’s body. He even got the chance to bite down a second time, injuring the arm that cut off his breath, yet, the witcher did not waver, until even the curse was unable to push the suffocating prisoner onwards.  
Then he grunted into his ear, harsh from effort: “Change the chanting… tame the curse.” His grip loosened, just enough to let the other breath and changed, so he could hold him down by the arms, securely kept behind his back.  
The small prisoner fought this relentless grip, despite the screaming pain in his shoulders, but even the curse couldn’t free him anymore. And each pained jerk gave him back more control, until he found it in himself to start the chant. Elder speech rolled from his lips as fluent and natural as his mother’s tongue. The singsong flowed with the moans of pain, stuttered, when he fought for air, hesitated, when the curse fought back, but it never stopped. Even screaming in torture, when the tendrils of the curse started to burn on his skin again, to flee his body or overtake it, he went on, pained, but relentless. Eventually, the strain was to much for both his body and the curse fighting for its control and he fell unconsciousness. The witcher used this chance to tie him up properly, to make sure, he wouldn’t need to hurt him anymore. He then carefully placed the prisoner’s head on his own thigh, so he could control the breathing. A strange feeling of tenderness made him wipe away the sweat from the still tense face and tuck the hair behind the ears. There was not much else he could do, so he sighed and waited for the sun to rise in hope, its power would weaken the spell further, so with their combined efforts, he could seal it, until they found a mage to break it’s very structure.

It was no easy task to hold the prison’s commander to his word to let Eythan go. He wouldn’t believe, that killing the small man would make everything worse, if it was even possible. He even went so far as to try and let him hang, but to no avail. When the guards tried to get hold of him, the curse inside his body lashed out, burned their hands and let them stumble back in painful surprise. The second try, running him through with a weapon, ended even worse, incapacitating the respective would-be killer for weeks. It was then, that the witcher put a definite end to those tries, before they would unleash, what he had just contained. For now.  
But he knew, he needed to bring it to a mage or sorceress fast, for when Eythan let down his guard, the curse would run its course. So, he was already prepared with provisions for two and his horse in front of the gate, when he came to get the prisoner from his hold. They left then, as fast as they could, despite the prisoners weakened condition.  
Without the help of the enchantment, he went breathless fast. His less than pleasant time in prison had taken its toll, that much was obvious. Fortunately, the witcher’s horse took a liking to him, so he was allowed to ride along from time to time, speeding their travels up, which allowed the witcher and his poor companion to cross the borders of the country two days later.  
Afterwards it wasn’t that hard to find a town, big enough to make living for some spellcaster or the other. The one here was well known to the witcher, and he liked her for her easy smile and open-minded attitude, that contrasted greatly against that of the townfolk. Before he even arrived at her house, they had already showered him and his companion with smelly half-molded vegetables. He didn’t mind it for himself, but pitied the miserable figure of the smaller man, who sat hunched behind him in the saddle.  
But his pity wasn’t welcome. Once Eythan realized, what his looks meant, he straightened up and stared stubbornly proud over the heads of the people and chose to ignore them, just as the witcher did. Together they dismounted and arrived at the sorceress’ doorstep, both their backs unpleasantly exposed to the resident bigots. Fortunately, she was present and willing to let them in.  
She seemed joyed to see the witcher, but her mood darkened, once she heard the reason for his unexpected arrival. But since she usually took problems headfirst, she didn’t hesitate now either. While she prepared some tea for the three of them, she advised Eythan to strip his back, so she could have a look herself. She even managed to use such nonchalant words and tone, only the witcher saw him blush, before he started his appointed task.  
Cups in their hands, they arranged themselves around him, where the sorceress intently studied the fine lines of the curse embedded into the carrier’s skin. He flinched, when she raised her hand to touch some details, but steadied himself and stayed perfectly still thereafter. Again, the witcher felt the urge to raise his own hand and sooth the burning skin beneath the sorceress inquisitive stare. It took all his resolve to watch her silently, not to disturb her analysis.  
The longer she went on, the more worried he got by her unwillingly obvious tension, until she released the mall man from her grip and sighed. “Elven magic is complicated and meandering. Its true purpose often veiled in layers of false resumptions.”  
The witcher sagged. “You cannot break it.”  
With a shrug, she agreed. “Bury it, contain it. But not break it, no…”  
The carrier looked back over his shoulder just for a second and then returned to staring at the wall. After some labored breaths, he managed to ask with only slightly more than a whisper: “Then, who can?” His image of misery pained both the witcher and the sorceress, its genuine pain to strong to bear alone.  
The witcher took his companion’s hand and squeezed it, while the sorceress explained. “The elves may or may not… That saying, they could, but they probably won’t.”  
This summed it up, quite obviously. This curse fit them all to well, forcing some almost human stranger to kill on their behalf, with no possibility to trace it back to them. What a fitting revenge. And if the spell took over and kept repairing his body, he probably faced the same eternity they did… Longer than even witchers and sorceresses lived.  
After that, there was not much to say. They stayed for a few days, bringing Eythan to strength, enough for the long journey to find elves, somewhere. He did well. He ate, when ordered to, slept when ordered to and was a good company, albeit sad at times. He learned more elder speech, enough to react accordingly whenever the curse stirred. A strange pride settled within the witcher, whenever he watched his small protégé. If he had known him earlier, younger, what a witcher he would have been… Even without the strength of mutations, he was able to string a bow again before they left, hold it, let the arrow fly surely, a task of no small strength.  
He also fared better, once they were on the road again, walking for hours without tiring, if they didn’t go too fast. It was a pleasure to travel with him, which was good, because he would need to follow for months, worst case even years, before they found elves to help them… And all this, while the witcher was doing his work. 

In the end, it was ten years of Eythan following him around, helping, where he could, learning, always near, always helpful, a comrade every witcher could wish for. When they finally found Filavandrel of the silver towers, the witcher wasn’t so sure he wanted it to end, although the price for his friend to go on was high and stayed high.  
Unexpectedly, he welcomed them, he knew about them, he was willing to break the curse. The witcher didn’t ask why. He knew. In all those years, whenever elven lives where at stake, Eythan had been untiring. Careful but relentless, he had done of more, than any curse could ever have achieved. Any debt imagined or real was paid.  
“But…”, Filavandrel made them hesitate. “Once I remove the curse, he will not live. He carried it so long, he won’t go on without.” The witcher and his friend exchanged a look, the witcher’s resigned, the smaller man’s sad but hopeful.  
“Give us this one night to say our goodbyes”, he pleaded, never looking away from the witcher’s gaze. Filavandrel agreed and left them to their last night together, whispering tales and reliving memories. He returned by morning, when Eythan slept, the witcher watching over him, his last guard.  
“Is he ready?”, he asked softly, patting the witcher on his back to offer his condolence. The witcher nodded and sighed.  
“If only I were.” With that he watched, how the elf traced the lines on the back of the sleeping man, dissolved them, until his chest stopped to rise and fall.  
“We will take care of him”, he promised, watching the witcher visually shrinking. “and you… remember his kindness… teach it to your kind… That is, what I ask of you, Vesemir.”  
The witcher nodded and left… “Never get involved…”, he sweared under his breath and returned to the one place he had avoided, with Eythan at his side. He returned to Kaer Morhen.

**Author's Note:**

> Politely sorry, if you thought, it was worse, but I am better safe than sorry.


End file.
